solitude, the only trait which we exude
together in our lonesomeness upon the same big rock
we thrash against it, more or less, the ticking of the clock
oh the folly! all the waste, the hurt, the love, absurdity
it's all we have in haste to make our very own profundity
before the closing of the coffin, burning of our ashes
how i'd prefer to serve my time: adorned with camera flashes
embalmed and set upon a rock, for all my fellow ones to see
and squirm in squeamish joy at all my peeled back dignity
solitude, the only proper attitude
with which we can approach the senseless nature of existence
a mind, a hole in timespace, fleetingly fought resistence
against that voiding encroach, the darkness of persistence
one day i'll greet it as a friend and hope it's in good mood
and meet with all my theories, my end, my solitude